Wait… What?

Doodle the Poodle; at this very second has his bum hole hovering precariously close to my face.

(Hovering, not hoovering. Just to be clear, if Doodle’s pink and puckered bum hole was hoovering close to my face, that would be an entirely different situation all together. I would almost definitely move away at a faster pace in the hope of avoiding being sucked up. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Anyway shall we move on? I am very tired.)

I am not exaggerating either.

Right now, as I type this, I actually have a dog’s (pink and puckered bum hole – have I already mentioned it was pink and puckered? I am so very tired I cannot think straight) moving closer and closer towards my left eye ball.

Right eyeball.

Wait, what? Did I say Left?

Anyway.

I once had a friend who, when pregnant, avoided cats Faces like the plague.

On her first Dr’s visit while pregnant you see, he told her that Cats Faeces were terrible for unborn babies and could kill them, and she misheard him.

I am telling you this, just so that you know, that no matter how tired and utterly stupid you get as a side effect of said exhaustion, (because of that child of yours, working, washing, ironing, putting petrol in the car, school dinners, having to sex up your other half while meal planning for the next fortnight, (wait… what?) and all the other life stuff, you always know, you are not alone.

And hey! At least you never ran screaming from a cat’s face.

There is an army of us.

United in our exhaustion based stupidity.

All knackered, all wondering where it all went wrong, all leaving the house with our shirts on inside out, all trying to avoid fast food, and all, at the back of our minds, contemplating suing Durex for millions of pounds (because seriously how would they EVER know? And the money could be really well spent on a NIGHT NANNY.)

I can only assume, as he gyrates, spins, whimpers and shakes in front of me and on top of me (Doodle, not the Irish one), that he too has spotted the dock off great big and hairy, 8 legged house guest currently known as; OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE SIZE OF THAT SPIDER which is currently tap-tap-a- tapping its way slowly across the laminate floor towards the kitchen (probably to make itself a sandwich and grab a beer because lets face it, it has no kids and it won’t matter if it is a hung-over spider in the morning.)

Wait… what?

The fact that instead of pushing him off me (Doodle I mean, not the Irish one, because no matter HOW tired I am, I ALWAYS have the energy to NOT have sex) and I am instead just leaning around him, is pretty standard behaviour for me these days.

I self preserve where I can.

I can’t blame Doodle for his behaviour either; the spider is huge, but mostly? I have nothing left to give.

I literally have no energy left.

And I blame Addison. (And the inventors of Candy crush) because My three year old (and my Ipad mini) have sucked the life out of me. (Can anyone get past level 50? That Jelly is impossible!)

This isn’t what I was going to write about today either to be honest, but as I am right now having to peer around my dogs monkey bum hole to see the screen, I really feel like the post I was going to write, (a deep and meaningful about how making a mistake makes you human) seems a bit moot, so instead I have decided to give in to the delirium and write a competency based interview on the joys of motherhood.

Because, well, why not?

1) Can you give me an example of a time you have sneezed and either thought you were about to follow through or actually did? (But you saw this as more of an inconvenience than an embarrassment?)

2) Can you give me an example of when somebody you may have known (or in fact not known at all) inappropriately grabbed your stomach and uterus during pregnancy and behaved as if caressing you in public was something completely normal and appropriate?

3) Can you give me an example of a time you have sat through half an hour of Cbeebies even when the child was asleep because you couldn’t be arsed reaching for the remote?

4) Can you give me an example of a time you have had to spellcheck Cbebbeeies because it has the most ridiculous spelling ever?

5) Have you ever experienced complete memory loss? Like when, you are half way through telling a really brilliant story involving your other half or even your best friend and all of a sudden you can’t remember their name? (But incidentally can in fact name the entire cast of 300 trains from Thomas the tank engine.) And then have to laugh off the fact your work colleague had to remind you what your husband was called?

6) Have you ever wanted to punch someone just because you are tired and they are not?

7) Have you ever cried in to your pillow because you love your child so much, But if they get up One!

More!

Time!

You will be forced to trap your own head in between the door and the doorframe and SLAM over and over again in a bid to stay sane?

8) Can you give me an example of a time you tried to have a conversation with a friend, but kept getting distracted and then forgetting the end of what you were supposed to be….

Oh bloody hell, hang on, the child just woke up, I’ll be back in a minute…

Wait… What?

What was I doing again?

We. Are. Not. Alone.

…. Right?

Bat Shit Crazy.

I must live in the moment.

I don’t want to go back in hospital.

I just can’t.

I must live in the moment.

I must take deep breaths.

Think rational thoughts.

I must not freak out.

What can I hear if I close my eyes and take deep breaths?

Yes everything is ok.

I can hear the sound of Doodle licking his bollocks romantically in his bed next to me.

Over my ragged breath, I can also hear the clinky clanky tinkering of the Irish one fixing his bike in the kitchen (as you do) while muttering expletives under his breath and faintly, if I focus, I can hear my Barmy and adored, sweet smelling boy snoring, mouth wide open, in his bed.

All is as it should be.

Deep breaths.

Do not freak out.

It will not happen.

Don’t freak out don’t freak out don’t freak out.

I do not want to end up back in hospital.

It reared its violent head again on New Years Eve.

I went for a lie down at 8pm ‘to rest my eyes for five minutes’ after loving every moment of snuggling with Addison,  after telling stories of tractors who could talk and dogs who could fly.

I lay down peacefully, promising to rest for only five minutes.

What must have been hours later I found myself sitting bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering and dripping with hot tears and sweat.

I could hear gunshots.

‘Irish one!’ I screamed in to the darkness after reaching out to grab him and with a huge sense of dread realising he wasn’t there. ‘Oh my god, Irish one! Where are you?’

He burst through the bedroom door like a shocked and pajamad warrior.

‘Whats the matter?’ He shouted racing towards the bed in what I thought was panic and worry for me. (Turns out I was screaming like I was being stabbed and he was worried the neighbors may think he was bludgeoning me.) ‘Stop screaming!’

‘Are we at war?’  I whispered clutching his shoulder and grabbing the PlayStation remote from him in case I needed to brandish it as a weapon later on.

‘No you medicated idiot,’ he laughed, enveloping me in a hug and rocking me back and forth like you may do a child ‘it is midnight. It is fireworks you can hear. Happy New Year. Go back to sleep.’

As my heart began to slow , I kissed him, handed him back his remote and rolled over.

I was intending to go back to sleep grumbling about how If the fireworks woke the kid up, i’d go mad.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I knew it was back.

I felt as if I had invited it back.

Immediately I was disappointed in myself and anxious.

Don’t freak out.

Don’t freak out.

Something had crept in to bed behind me, and was now spooning with me, breathing its hot breath on to my neck, making all of my hair stand on end.

Psychosis.

Go away.

Please go away.

A feeling of dread so worrying, I am now, a week later, still struggling to function.

Calm down.

You are ok.

The world didn’t end.

I am getting married this year.

Nothing is like what it was.

It isn’t back.

You are imagining it.

Doodle is slowly starting to realise 5 years after emerging from his doggy mothers womb that outside is where he must poo and the rocky start I had at motherhood myself, is just starting to feel lovely, like deep down in my bones, awe inspiring, heart rupturing lovely.

Everything is ok.

Deep breaths.

It is only a new year.

Don’t freak out.

But no, I know it is there waiting for me, seeping in at my edges, the darkness, the paranoia, I can feel it, no matter how much I argue with myself.

It is there.

Has the Irish one spiked my tea?

He repeatedly denies it, his brow furrowing with worry and of course, then I laugh.

Set his mind at rest.

Before surreptitiously creeping in to the kitchen and pouring it down the sink.

I will make a new cup of tea, and I will keep my eyes on it.

He may be trying to spike me.

You never know.

Ok.

I think we have a problem.

Do those girls hate me really? Will they follow me back to my car and throw bricks at me?  Are they plotting to follow me home? Do they call me fat and see evil in me?

Are they planning to steal my baby? I must tell them I made my baby up. I must pretend he doesn’t exist.

No harm can come to my baby.

Ok.

I think we may have a problem.

And then I am lost.

The deep breathing hasn’t helped.

I know with certainty right now it will happen.

The moment I dread.

The moment I am pulled roughly from the serene moment I am resting my lips peacefully on my son’s forehead, or inhaling his sweet playful childishness as he smacks his lips together in his sleep, and everything will just… disappear.

I will blink myself from this life and find myself in a stark white room 30 years from now stinking to high heaven of hospitals and bleach, tethered to a bed with an old man leaning over me, his teeth yellowing and his complexion pale, begging me to come home and get better.

I will recognise nobody.

I won’t know what happened.

I was putting my son to bed and I blinked.

The old man will be the Irish one but of course, I wont recognise him, having only seen him three minutes before when he was swearing in the kitchen and leaving greasy oil prints everywhere.

Now.

I mean… just then!

What happened?

I want to go back.

‘Lexy,’ he will tenderly whisper in my ear, his salty old coffee breath gushing over my senses, ‘I am your husband we have been married 30 years today, Addison is  here to see you,  can you remember him? Are you lucid?’

‘You don’t like coffee’ I will whisper confused, ‘you can’t be him’ my eyes wide with fear, my heart exploding with every beat from my chest.

‘Mike wazaouski’ he will whisper our private joke playfully in my ear, and I will instantly know it is him and I will turn to ice.

‘Mum.’ I will hear his voice before I see him and I will sense his tears, his heartbreak at how his mother went Bat shit crazy  ‘Mum, it’s me, Addison. Are you lucid?’

I will turn slowly, my head a dead weight filled with fear and disbelief and I will look at the grown up man stood at the end of my bed.

My heart will catch in my throat.

Don’t freak out.

I missed it all.

I missed him growing up.

I missed it all.

No.

‘No!’ I will want to scream long and hard.

‘Mum’ he will whisper, his little lopsided smile and cracked baby teeth, long gone, his baby blue eyes once filled with vulnerability now replaced by life experience I haven’t witnessed, a life with his mother trapped in another world. A life where his mother abandoned him.

And I will howl in desperation, where is my son, where has his smell gone, his little play doh and yoghurt stained pyjamas? Where are our moments?

The man at the end of the bed cannot be my son, he just can’t, my son is 2 years old.

And I will black out.

Ok. 

I think we may have a problem. 

Don’t freak out.

Everything is ok.

Addison is asleep in his bed.

Concentrate on the now.

But will now be the moment it happens?

That my years will be violently stolen?

I am still in bed.

I can hear Doodle farting.

Concentrate on the now.

It is all ok.

The Irish one has come in.

He is shouting at me to calm down.

He sounds worried.

I must be freaking out.

I am trapped in my imaginary world.

Heart racing, panicked, mouth dry, the room swinging in and out of focus.

I must live in the moment.

I must not forget to take my medication.

I must not freak out.

I must not get too upset and angry when I hear people off handedly label others, with mental health issues, funny names.

They simply do not understand that this is an illness.

I must live in the moment.

A panic attack will only ever be a panic attack.

I am going to go and hug my baby.

I am bat shit crazy.

But you know?

I will get through it.

Happy New Year!

I Got Pee on My Stress. (Yup. That about sums it up.)

I am so tired I could quite happily sit on this sofa and wee myself.

Such is the effort I feel it would take to actually stand up and plod my aching hoofs with their mangled toenails, that once used to be described as ‘pretty,’ to the bathroom.

I feel like a giant yellowing elastic band stretched out tight between two points, tense, firm and poised to ping at any moment.

Except there will be no pinging or poinging here today, as I am too drained, too weary and I am not sure what a poing would actually look, feel, smell or taste like.

And also if I poinged, there is always that added worry of where I would end up.

Knowing my luck I would be poinged in to a giant steaming pile of eye eating bacteria, and I would end up blind and walking in to walls, and then my guide dog would eat Doodle and a catastrophic chain of events would follow culminating in me ending up unloved, lonely and housing 28 cats.

Perhaps I could fit a little breakdown in at some point today instead?

Yes a breakdown, that is what I feel I may need in the absence of any steam valve being fitted in to my brain.

I would actually very much enjoy a breakdown round about now.

That is, if a breakdown means I can turn off my phone, get in to bed, not play Thomas the tank engine, ignore the dog who is pleading to go out, throw the bills falling with a heavy thud on the mat every morning back in to the postman’s bag while telling him to get stuffed, strangle the Irish one for waking me up with a penis shaped prod in my back every morning and happily ignore the washing up pile for so long it starts to resemble the leaning tower of … GET THE HELL OFF ME, IT IS 6AM NO I DON’T WANT SEX!!!!! ARE YOU ON GLUE?

But again I am actually pretty sure I am unable to have a breakdown at this point due to the fact that whether I seem to like it or not stuff keeps happening and life whether you like it or not, goes on.

Mum is on the cobbled path to recovery now and is out of hospital.

This thrills me of course, but unfortunately I am now unable to shake intrusive thoughts of what could have happened had she not gotten there soon enough. They are keeping me awake at night.

Well, the thoughts and the fact Addison now believes and with utmost conviction is trying to convince me and the entire neighborhood that 3am is actually the time to put a Thomas Dvd on and munch on a banana while singing the wheels on the bus at top volume!

Damn the big boy bed and it’s unnecessary lack of restraint.

I need a big boy bed that comes with a cage.

A friendly child type cage that would not get me in trouble with the NSPCC or the RSPCA (because yes Doodle would be in there with him for company.) A cage that he loves. A cage that isn’t necessarily a cage, per se, but that also totally is.

Also, while I am fighting to get the devil child to stay in bed, trying to ignore thoughts of my parents dying, swatting away the Irish one and his insatiable libido (Once a month is plenty!!!) I am also being tortured by memory’s from the past week which I had overlooked at the time, as too much was going on.

At some point last week while visiting Momma bear, all stressed out and sweating, I rushed through a very busy A&E department and nearly fell over a very drunken and very proud Mancunian man.

Yes.

You would expect to see a drunk in A&E.

Nothing new there.

Except.

This drunk and very proud Mancunian man had his trousers around his ankles and was brandishing his willy like a weapon (don’t they all?) while swaying to his own beat, singing an Ian brown song at the top of his lungs and failing miserably to pee in to a bottle.

The fact he winked at me as I accidentally barged past him (I GOT PEE ON ME!!) has had me shuddering for days and has basically just ensured my therapist will be paid for at least another five sessions.

Also our next-door neighbors just moved to China.

Yeah.

China.

I blame the Irish one. (Because, why not?)

And Doodle. (Who would regularly amble in through their back door, wag his bum a bit as a greeting and then proceed to shit on their carpet. Something I am sure the Estate agent will fail to mention to the next potential tenants.)

But still, China?

That’s a little extreme.

Are we really that bad?

Also, thank you for leaving us with your fish.

There are now 9 of us living in this two bedroom flat.

And I have no idea what fish need. (I know what they probably don’t need though! Addison launching all and sundry in to the tank at random times of the day! So far I have found – a bottle of deodorant, 2 dummies, a lolly stick, half a banana and a handful of Thomas memorabilia in the tank with them. Doodle has gone in to hiding lest he find himself being unceremoniously dumped in there with them! I may call the RSPCA myself.)

Stress of life. Lack of sleep. Guilt over lack of sex drive, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME! Paranoia everyone hates me. Stress I am putting on weight. Lack of sleep, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME! Hunger, but I am too fat too eat. Feeling down on myself. Look at my manky toes. I need a wee. Stress. Lack of sleep, no Addy you cannot have an ice cream it is 3am! Paranoia I am crap at everything I do. Stress over bank balance. Lack of sleep cos I am sure my dad is dead when actually he is just in the bath. Stress we now have fish, and they may die. Paranoia I didn’t look after mum well enough. Stress I have missed work and now will have to catch up. So tired, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!! Hunger for some peace. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep, panic attacks coming back. Paranoia, racing thoughts. Stress, car needs taxing. Lack of sleep, drunk man winking at me. Stress, bad girlfriend. Paranoia, he will leave me. Stress. Lack of sleep, GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!! Hunger. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep. Paranoia. Stress. Lack of sleep. Stress. Paranoia. Stress. Lack of sleep. Hunger. Feeling down on myself. Stress. Lack of sleep…. AND ON AND ON AND ON.

I want a breakdown. (Or just a break from my brain would be good too.)

‘I swear to the holy Lazarus Irish one, if that Dong comes near me one more time I will lob it off Elaina Bobbit Style!’

Oh shit. I need to feed the fish.

And I still need a wee.

And we need to do a shop…

And on and on and on and on and on…

I am so tried I could happily just wee myself. Right here.

Right now.

NightSwimming. (Me, Dave, and the cast of Chicago.)

She locked me in the toilet.

It was not fun.

Last night while staring with unbridled rage at the back of the Irish One’s innocent, unknowing and gently slumbering head, while trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep, my brain (which clearly hates me) seized the moment and escorted me on a not- so magical -mystery tour of my youth.

In all honesty I was seconds away from venomously flicking this bruise that currently lives on the back of the Irish Ones neck, such was my frustration and jealousy at his peaceful sleeping form (and in all honesty I hate that he swans off to play football, so it serves him right for getting a bruised neck, he’s lucky I haven’t punched it, its big enough to have it’s own name) so it was probably best that my attention was averted away by my brain (the brain that still clearly hates me) on to yet more memories I had long forgotten.

Insomnia at it’s best ladies and gentlemen.

Like he hasn’t been through enough, bless his little Leprechaun socks, my subconscious must have been thinking.

But ‘Thwack!’

Just imagine how great it would feel to flick it though!

Then I could totally pretend I had done it in my sleep, or even better! Just deny it ever happened at all, with a casual and groggy ‘what? You must have been dreaming honey but I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU WOKE ME UP!’

I could pretend I was in Chicago the musical and burst in to song! (You know! Like in the Cell Block Tango? ‘I DIDNT DO IT!’ I could sing,  ’He ran in to my finger! He ran in to my finger, 9 times!…’ actually forget that. That sounds a lot ruder than I wanted it to… we aren’t that kind of couple… I mean there have been times when I… you know what? Lets move on.)

Oooo just thinking about it is making me grin. (The musical…)

Ahhh nighttime frolics, how times have changed. (Ahem.)

Anyway.

Bruise flicking aside, I am actually, usually quite a nice person, honest.

This leaves me unsure at to why my brain decides to regularly torture me for hours on end, when I am ravenously desperate for sleep, with dragging me on silent but very painful journeys, jam packed with my biggest regrets, most embarrassing moments and greatest and most horrifying adrenalin pumping life memories.

Dave. Dave is what the bruise should be called.

Insomnia is too calm a word to describe not being able to sleep.

Who comes up with these names?

Maybe I should apply for a job doing that.

In honesty there is a fair few I would change.

Insomnia being the first, I would immediately change it to Headfucknia.

I would also change the spelling of diahhorea diahorrea diaherria diahorria, (case and point)! And change it to Bumburnsplateria.

Anyways.

I assume that this particularly high voltage memory came as a courtesy aperitif to what will no doubt be tonight’s action packed main course of fuel jammed adrenalin anxiety 4am deliberations.

On Sunday we are flying to Spain.

Those who know me, will know I hate flying almost as much as I hate Dave the bruise.

Yes, Dave suits him.

My house wont be empty though, for any would be amateur burglars out there, no it won’t be empty at all, it will be full of massive burly German Shot putters wearing lederhosen and weedy but clearly dangerous mafia types in trilby hats all smoking cigarettes and whispering about their collection of guns and knives and er, stuff. I am having these house sitters flown in from… well… Germany and Russia…. to er… protect all the valuable foot tearing toy trains and cars and… Shall we move on?

DON’T BURGLE MY HOUSE. Seriously, it’s not a healthy place for feet.

Anyway, during this particular memory, I was flying home to visit my father for his 50^th birthday.

I had glandular fever and was pissed off.

Not just because I had glandular fever but also because…no it was mainly because I was stuck on a plane and had bloody glandular fever.

Me feeling hopelessly dizzy, dopey and rough, of course meant this trip was bound to involve a hefty amount of embarrassment for me and of course, a dopey, ditzy, and not very apologetic flight attendant.

The very same flight attendant that ended up locking me in a tiny toilet coffin (did I say coffin? I meant… well… coffin) at 800 million feet above sea level.

As if being stuck on a fuselage attached to two enormous steel gasoline and match holders, cleverly designed to look like safe engines at that height wasn’t bad enough, I was now trapped in a cubicle with a loud swooshing hole that dropped the poop out.

‘I can’t get out!!’ I had screamed, upon hearing a lock clunk from the outside and dropping a big one.

I never lock toilet doors, just to be clear, on account of being incredibly anxious in small spaces thanks to being scarred for life by Virgin trains and their electronic door invention, which resulted in me being trapped in a shit stinking toilet from Manchester to Brighton for 7 hours (!!!) at the age of 25. (And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was on my way to visit a potential boyfriend at the time, And let me tell you, no amount of channel number 5 masks the stench of sweat, cheap bleach and condensed commuter poo. Marilyn Monroe clearly never traveled on a ding a long, or whatever those swinging trains are now called…)

Anyway, back to my memory.

I had immediately, still sat in the squatting and weeing position kicked the flat of my feet up on to the offending door, to check what I had just heard was in fact the sound of prison.

The door, much to my disappointment, and most likely the relief of the people sat in the first few crushingly tight rows, did not open.

‘Let me out!!’ I screamed jumping to my feet and banging on the door still mid wee but so much blood rushing to my ears I swear I may have blacked out momentarily.

With my voice having been ravaged by my aching glands, my breath coming out in raspy glandular spurts and with the wee running cold down to my ankles I tried not to cry  ‘I didn’t lock the door but now I can’t get out!!’ I howled.

‘I know!!’ what must have been the orange shiny faced flight attendant yelled back relatively calmly from behind the metal door, ‘I locked it for you. Twas left open.’

‘I know!’ I now shrieked trying to steady myself and banging my elbows off every available surface in the process, ‘I know!’

What felt like an eternity of turbulence passed and when nobody responded I began to hammer on the door again and tried to push it open with all the puny feverish strength I could muster.

‘I am agoraphobic!’ I begged pathetically loudly to 245 passengers ‘ please UNLOCK the door, unlock it, unlock it, oh please god unlock it!’

‘Your agoraphobic?’ came the female voice again ‘Well you should be alright in there then, it’s tiny.’ She sounded confused.

‘NO!’ I had shouted now at full force. ‘Let me out!!!!’

‘Just unlock the door.’ She had calmly whispered back in her Liverpudlian accent. ‘You’re being very loud. It is simple. Just unloccccchhhkkkk the door from the insiiiide.’

In an immediate whirlwind, I grasped at the lock, slid it to the unlock position and with the force of a highly steroidal midget body builder, burst out of the cubicle like a hot rat out of a saucepan.

A hot semi naked rat, out of a saucepan, that was also covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog.

A hot semi-naked rat covered in urine and shaking like a shitting dog who had just inadvertently mooned, front bum and back bum, 75 rows of skint Malaga to Manchester holiday makers.

The bastards actually applauded.

Oh the shame.

‘AGORA-PHOBIC’ I had stuttered directly in to her face, trying desperately to salvage any pride that may have remained, while hurriedly trying to pull up my jeans and hide my face, as well as ignore the horrified gasps coming from the old man sat in seat 1A, who got so close at one point he nearly got a bite of my left cheek instead of his soggy salad, ‘is actually a fear of not being able to escape.’

‘Oh.’ She had retorted blankly ‘I thought it was a fear of open spaces. How do you get on in lifts then?’

I don’t really remember much from here as I actually did black out and was escorted off the plane and in to the arms of a mustached Spaniard supporting a first aid box (we landed first) but I do remember that air stewards face very well and so help me god if I ever see her again… (I’ll go bright red and wish for the ground to swallow me up whole.)

It really was as simple as that, one minute I had been lying in bed not flicking any bruises and the next minute… well I was still in bed but on the back of that memory my heart was pounding and I was literally curled under the duvet in shame.

Bloody insomnia.

Bloody glandular fever.

Bloody Virgin trains.

Oh I was curled up like a donut!

Not for long though.

I’m resilient; I soon went back to staring at but not flicking Dave and planning and stressing out about my wedding. (He hasn’t asked yet, but you know, I am sure he will! I am such a catch!)

On Sunday we go to Spain.

We are travelling back to my birthplace!!

(I wasn’t actually born there, I was actually born in Rochdale but that’s wholly beside the point, I should have been born in Spain and totally would have been too if it wasn’t for the fact my mum and dad lived in Rochdale at the time of my birth… )

I won’t be using the toilet on the flight unsurprisingly and plan on fashioning instead an adult size pair of pull ups out of a bandana and 25 Tena lady’s first thing Sunday morning right before I down 3 diazepam, 6 anti depressants and a bag of square crisps.

(The square crisps are just in case I never get to eat any again.)

I do realise this cocktail will undoubtedly ensure I miss Addison’s excitement at being so close to a plane and not being a drooling blob (he was 9 months last time) and I am sure, like his daddy (and Dave) he will love flying, but alas, it will be the only way I will make it through.

Wish the Irish one luck.

I won’t need it.

I will be off my face before we even leave terra firma.

I better apply for a passport for that bruise, as it’s probably going to spread somewhat.

God love Dave.

He’s part of the family.

(… And he’s got it coming…he’s got it coming…)

I love me a good musical.

Banana’s in Pyjama’s. (Are not Actually that Rare!)

‘Can we get a man in?’

(OH NO SHE DIDN’T!)

I carefully and quietly murmur this, knowing that I will somehow have crossed the line between Venus and Mars, in an unforgivable way.

I immediately avoid eye contact as his head whips up, and look instead with feigned interest at the murky water slowly seeping up my pajama bottoms from my tired ankles, all the way up to my grazed knees.

Knees which have started to creek and click with such regularity I am wondering how much it would cost to trade them in for a bionic pair.

Not only would this help with my day-to-day endurance test, the endurance test I sometimes laughingly refer to as ‘life,’ but it would also mean I could actually call myself the Bionic Woman and mean it.

Ooo, now that would be so cool.

Plus I would then automatically qualify for my very own soundtrack meaning that I could run in slow motion whenever the fancy took me.

Running in slow motion is underrated considering how much fun it looks.

It’s a lot easier on the lungs too, although it does take a while to get anywhere.

Anyway.

As the water aims for my hairy thighs hiding beneath my once dry jammy bottoms, it dawns on me that not only am I living in the house that Jack built but I am also doing so, barely surviving in a body controlled by a brain that wont allow me to walk in a straight line without falling on my face, in the most horrific of circumstances.

A brain that lets me down so often, and stabs at my heart with such ferocity it is all I can do to not bend over and howl in pain the moment the sun creeps in through the crack in the badly fitted curtains. (Not a euphemism! Although in fairness if it was, it would be an accurate one. Anyway…)

He spins unsteadily on the water, like a terrible ice dancer filled with self belief auditioning for Britain’s got talent, from where he was stood staring agog, morning hair sticking up at all angles and eyes deeply hidden beneath two years of no sleep, staring in confusion at the dials on the machine that is supposed to wash our clothes.

A machine, which evidently can no longer be arsed to do the job, it was built for.

A machine, incidentally that I can totally relate to.

As he stumbles in his attempt to stay upright on the slippery floor and avoid an Irish broken tailbone, he propels a fan of water all over the child who, of course finds this absolutely hilarious and giggles loudly from where he is now sat, pounding his fists in to the soapy puddles and watching the ripples spread far and wide to every corner of the kitchen, with glee.

‘Maybe I should just bath him on the kitchen floor from now on, Seen as he wont let me bath him in the actual bath. Maybe that’s what Supernanny means when she talks about finding alternatives’ I think to myself with my 5am brain, cursing the moment we hit ‘2’ and the angel I gave birth to, developed a personality sent to me directly from crazyville Arizona.

Doodle as ever, is also in attendance, stood beside the child, an important input in to family goings on, he is now thigh deep in the water but seems unfazed by the commotion, simply nibbling at his bone shaped biscuits as they float past.

The Irish one roars at me without words, the dancing half-light of the early morning bouncing off the dampness of our situation creating a rainbow halo behind him.

‘No woman!’ he admonishes being careful not to fall on the child, and looking bizarrely, a lot like Jesus.

He needs to trim that beard, I think to myself again, as I picture myself bludgeoning him on to a cross in the name of my sanity.

We don’t have a free hammer though actually, and I think a hammer is an essential tool when one needs to bludgeon something, and as it is currently being used to prop the bed up that plan is a no go.

‘I can fix it! I fixed it myself last week, and I will do it again! Watch me Fecking fix it. AS LONG as I am the man in your life, no other  ‘man’ (he spits this word out, like it is herpes) ‘shall cross this threshold to fix any one thing. I am bloke! I am THE BLOKE! I am the one who sorts things, and therefore I am king of all things in this kingdom. I am THE FIX IT KING! And this is easily sortable. A man? Tish! what do we need a man for???’ His disgust is palpable.

God I love that mad bastard.

I sigh. Can’t bludgeon him today then. Not only is the hammer pre-disposed but also where would I get the wood?

I sigh again.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman who woke up at 5am to find the ‘fixed’ washing machine had vomited its guts out on to the kitchen floor. Again.

I sigh.

A deep sigh, belonging to a woman, who for the last five months has been using a bent fork to close the washing machine and a length of rope ripped from an iPhone battery to open it.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who for the last year has had to beg the light switch in the bedroom to work, trying over and over again to flick it from just the right angle, because of a; (and I quote)

‘A Dodgy electrician who fitted it in the first place who (clearly) cant be trusted to be called back in, because he has made it irreparable (of course he has) for a civilian not electrics trained (Irish) man and there for it is ‘fine’ if you flick it from this angle, I fixed it, look it will do!’ (No it wont blood do! ARGHHHHHHHHH)’

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman who because of this ‘dodgy electrician’ has arrived at work on more than one occasion wearing navy blue tights coupled with a completely black ensemble… an occupational hazard of getting dressed in the dark, and as I am sure you will agree, wardrobe suicide.

I sigh.

A sigh belonging to a woman, who now has wet knees, ankles and thighs, who was forced to use the hoover to unblock the bath drain, and then got a bollocking from Dyson for doing so. (LIKE THE ONLY THING THAT WAS ACTUALLY FIXED GODDAMN IT!)

A sigh belonging to a woman who can no longer cope with a back door that has a pillow in front of it ‘to stop the rain’ seeping in and to prevent a community of ants seeking refuge from the stormy conditions outside.

A pillow, dear Irish one, may be a deterrent to a puddle, but it is almost certainly not a deterrent to a focused and motivated army of ants.

One day I seriously worry that I will go to sleep snuggled under my two duvets (-Because the boiler is temperamental, but ‘its ok Lexy, just put a jumper on!’) and will actually wake up 6 hours later (a full nights sleep these days) in the garden by the oak tree (who’s roots are now heading towards our bathroom causing the sewage to block up –and god help me he is about to buy a chain saw), the GOD DAMN ants having clubbed together and carried me outside in my sleep.

I will bang on the door in bitter regret as they sit on their ant bums on my sofa watching Living TV that I pay for, before one of them will get up and slide the broken curtains shut, my Starbucks mug in his claw, while shaking his antennas at me as if to say ‘you had your chance to exterminate us but you refused to get a man in, so therefor we now rule.’

Ant mutiny.

‘Just tell me what is happening on Grey’s anatomy’ I will shout in desperation ‘please!’

The Queen ant will ignore me from where she is stood in the middle of the living room shaking her behind and singing Beyoncé’s ‘to the left to the left’ wearing my new bikini.

I can picture it now, Addison will be brought up carrying five times his body weight by a colony of ants while Doodle will be saddled up and kept as a slave and used to carry particularly heavy stones for the ant pyramids.

It will be ant mutiny I tell thee! Ant mutiny at 23 Mental road.

Sure you are bobbing for biscuits now Doodle, but you have no idea what is about to happen!

Bless him.

‘Ok’ I mumble, wondering if water skis are a sensible purchase at this point and seriously considering emigrating across the Mexican border without telling him and setting up shop in a shack with a heavily tanned, mustached handy man eating a burrito.

It’s because I love him that I don’t argue.

I don’t want to demasculinate him, or whatever the therapy word is.

But how the hell am I supposed to clean my knickers now?

Do you think perhaps I could get a man in and then pretend he has fixed it all? Drug him or something, and then tell him that it was he who fixed it?

‘Can you get me a crow bar please babe?’ he asks perched on his sodden knees, prying at the washer with his Irish fingertips.

I sigh stepping over the commotion, in to the dry and badly lit hallway (the bulbs need changing and he refuses to buy a ladder.)

It is the sigh of a woman who is deeply in love with a mad man, but who really needs some relationship advice, a new house and the number of a man who can work quietly and discreetly around a drugged up Irish man, and fix stuff!

Drugging is ok right? RIGHT?

I think it is, given the circumstances.

Forgiveness, with Extra Cheese.

He punches me in the face repeatedly.

Drawing his arm away first to muster up all his strength before balling his fist tight to ensure maximum impact, he throws himself at me again and again.

They land square in my face and I reel backwards as my head explodes with stars and my nose implodes from the force of the vicious attack.

‘Shut up.’ He says firmly. ‘Shut up.’

I don’t matter.

****

The room is cold and humid with the damp odor of a thousand tears shed.

It smells of last year. This makes me angry.

Outside, from the ledge on the roof, I spot old water hanging frozen in to stalactites that would be beautiful, I think to myself, if it wasn’t for the ingrained dirt and filth shining through the glimmering mirage. The imperfections are not what make them beautiful. If only it was clean water. 

James sits upright in his chair, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, his legs crossed, his Christmas moose socks peaking out from under his trousers, providing me for the briefest of moments with an internal grin, a respite from the cesspit of hopelessness I have become buried within.

Moose socks rock. I must remember to get some for Addison. I am pretty sure Chandler had some on Friends that Janice bought him. Moose socks would make me laugh more. I could drink my coffee in them. I hope Grey’s anatomy is back on soon.

Three chairs occupy the cramped room, all of them positioned around a small round table containing a telephone, and all of them taken.

We sit like sardines, all staring at the telephone. If it rings now we will shit ourselves. It is so quiet in here.

Actually, I am not sure why there is even a telephone in here. Maybe some therapy sessions go on a bit long and they have to order food in. I wonder if Domino’s deliver to mental hospitals. I’d have a pineapple one. With extra cheese. And dough balls and…

James coughs in to his balled up fist.

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. I want a pizza.

I know I am stalling. I also know I need to stop stalling and thinking about cheesy goodness dripping with.. STOP IT!

They are both waiting for me to speak.

I need to stop thinking about pizza. With extra cheese and possibly mushrooms. Although that could be overkill.

The woman in the chair next to mine is a friend, just to clarify. And I’m not in a police cell in the mental hospital either. I know they have one of those, which is worrying but no,  I am in an experimental therapy session.

I just need to get on with what James has asked! He asked me to speak.

The silence lasts forever. I can hear her tapping her foot next to mine. So bloody impatient.

I hunch my shoulders over and sniff, bringing my right boot on to my left knee so my fat knee is pointing at her. I play with the laces on my boots. I am sat like a man. Like the alpha male. This isn’t how I wanted to come across at all. I am vulnerable! Shit!!! But if I move back now I will look weird. This is so uncomfortable. I need to speak. I am embarrassed but I need to speak. I’m also getting cramp and I need to trump. Damn.

I move my leg back quickly and say ‘ok’ loudly, in the hope it will mask the nervousness escaping from my bum.

At least I try to say ok, but I have been silent for so long it gets caught behind a ball of flem and I end up choking instead, which definitely masks the trump that was forced out by the cough, so I am relieved at this, as I gasp for breath.

‘Ok’ I try again, after my back has been patted and I have regained my breath and taken a sip of water. Good job my trumps don’t smell.

‘You are a good person missis and I love you. You are kind. Err… you care about others. You have looked after me. You make me laugh and you make others laugh when laughter doesn’t seem possible. Err…You have pretty eyes and a huge heart. You look after your friends and know the meaning of fighting for what you want and err…You gave your last tenner to a homeless person when you needed it to get home, because you care. I admire you for that. That was kind. You never put yourself first and will go above and beyond for somebody in need. You are not a bad mother, or a bad daughter or an evil disgusting person. Err…’ I shift in my seat. ‘…You have nothing to feel guilty about. You are not going to hell. You deserve to be loved. You deserve love. You don’t have to beat yourself up for the things you are unable to do. Erm…’

I trail off and slouch unwillingly back in to the uncomfortable silence, still unable to make eye contact while saying any of that, I am now looking down and weaving my fingers through my huge red scarf, that is sitting on my knee.

I feel fragile. I do not believe the things I am saying to my friend, but I feel I have to say them. She needs me to say them. She needs to know someone is there for her. She is a good person at the root of it, but she has caused a lot of pain too. Its hard not to judge her for that.

‘Can you make eye contact with her Lexy please?’ James asks softly and I feel her look up at me for the first time too.

‘No’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

They both sigh simultaneously. Once again I have failed. I feel mean.

‘Would you like to respond to Lexy?’ Jamie asks her kindly, inquisitively.

Her head shoots up and she glares, but not at me, at him. She seems angry. Aggrieved, pissed off. She is strong. She is intimidating when she is like this.

‘Not really.’ She barks pounding her fist on the arm of the chair.

‘Try.’ James implores kindly.

I take a deep breath. I am not sure I want to be here for this really. Maybe I should call a taxi. Maybe that is what the telephone is for actually. For when therapy goes wild.

‘You are wrong,’ she growls as she turns, taking a deep breath and switching her intimidating stare from him, in to the side of my head.

I’m not stupid enough to make eye contact so am now staring at the stalactites again.  But I feel it. Her fire is burning holes in my head. She scares me. I shouldn’t have come here today. I need to look after myself never mind her. I have enough going on. I want to go home for a pizza. Damn that bloody telephone.

‘So wrong.’ She continues while my leg jiggles about nervously ‘I am a bitch, I am selfish, I am wrong, and YOU’ she shouts now she is on a roll  ‘more than anybody knows that! I should be happy with what I have and I am not. I am spoilt and rotten in my core. What I have done cannot be forgiven! I took an overdose!! I chose death over you, and my child and my boyfriend and my parents, are you listening? I only think of myself!!! You may sit there and tell me you love me,’ she spits this out ‘but we both know you are only saying these things because James is making you. When we leave here today I won’t hear off you for weeks as usual and given that I am evil, I can’t say I blame you. I hate myself nearly as much as I hate you and your constant positivity telling me I actually deserve things and people and bloody love! You think by sitting in here and pretending you love me that this will all go away? I told my brother I hated him and he died. I was so selfish and I still am! I never put a wash on, on time, I am a crap mother, I can’t even cook, I bump my car constantly and I am never on time. I am lazy! LAZY AND SELFISH! I hate you and I hate myself!’

I avert my gaze from the frozen filth outside and take a deep breath as I turn to make eye contact with her for the first time.

She is beautiful and illuminated in her anger.

‘Yes.’ I whisper ‘I know you think you are all of those things but I disagree. One thing I will say though, is you are a bully. You bully me, and that needs to stop. I need you to hear that. I am fragile and you control me, but I want you to know I am here. I do deserve to be loved and I will not put up with your bullying any longer. I am going to fight back.’

Two tears roll down my cheeks as I blink.

‘Lexy’ I continue on speaking to the empty chair, the other side of me, the strong side of me, that is staring back at me angrily, in my mind. ‘You are worth it. You matter. You do a thousand things a day that prove that. You have to forgive yourself. You are still fighting. You are still here. I am fragile but I am ok.’

I am my own worst enemy and I am learning to fight her.

James leans over and pats my leg. ‘Good work today Lex, keep fighting the bully in you.  Take a few minutes and we will have a break.’

***

My eyes watering from the force of his punch I grab his hands.

I matter.

‘Addison. Mummy was telling you she loves you. We mustn’t hit, even if Special Agent Oso is saying something important, it will never be more important than mummy telling you she loves you. You are perfect and mummy will never tell you any different, but we mustn’t punch and we mustn’t be horrible. Do you understand me?’

‘Ice pop?’  He asks in return, a question sealed with an open mouthed slobbery kiss that catches more of my nose and leaves my face covered in pre- dummy gunk. Nice.

Yes son. You can have an ice pop.  You can also have my heart and you can keep that.  You are perfect and beautiful and bold and funny. But you will not hit me.

You are the reason I will keep confronting my bully and spend the time teaching you to love yourself.

You are my reason to fight.

You are perfect.

‘But throw the wrapper in the bin please and NO!! DO NOT SHARE IT WITH DOODLE!!! DOODLE IN TO BED! YOU HAVE A DODGY ENOUGH BOWEL WITHOUT SHARING ICE POPS!!’

For the love of…

I am a good mummy. The best.

It’s a start.

There is nothing wrong with who I am – that’s the goal.

I am having pizza for tea tonight. (In case you were wondering.)

What would you say to your bully? 

You Haven’t Let Anybody Down. (Relapse.)

‘I know how you feel mate’ I whisper in to the cold dawn air, pulling my feet underneath me in a bid to keep them away from the icy bite of bitterness curling in from behind the balcony wall.

Sitting completely still listening for noise, any sound that may signal somebody is aware of my trespassing; goose pimples slowly creep up my bare arms and with the rising of the sun, the dawning of the full meaning of what I have been trying to do, what I have been attempting to hide, rests uncomfortably and like a desperately unwanted failure, on my already struggling heart.

From behind the steamy glass partitions to my left, completely unaware of my actions, the rest of the household are warm and snuggled beneath their duvets, breathing evenly, deeply ensconced in a dream world no doubt excitedly anticipating the start of the day and all the joy that is bound to be felt with the arrival of more family from overseas and the start of the festive period.

I find myself sat almost catatonic, at least this is how it would appear from the outside looking in, but as usual beneath the stillness there hides a tornado of destruction desperate to escape, and yet here I sit motionless and contained, like I have found myself sat on many mornings over the last 3 weeks, wide awake at 5am, although this time, my surroundings are not familiar in any sense.

Today I will write. Today I will be honest.

Legs squashed beneath me on an alien, yellow and damp plastic chair that resides like a welcome friend, that seems to know what I need, on my mother in laws balcony, staring in to the early morning nothingness, completely alone except for the two enflamed, rock hard and aching glands in my throat which arose out of nowhere at tea time yesterday like 2 unwelcome Russian ballet dancers, all shiny and proud, desperate for attention, at a party for comfortable and relaxed stoned hoodies only, I notice a spider, hot footing it across the balcony handrail.

I decide instantly that he is Jeff reincarnate and smile as I glance to the hot cup of tea I silently made in an unfamiliar kitchen earlier, that sits to the left of my laptop now, its steam dancing and molding itself confidently around the cold morning air, it too seemingly overjoyed and excited by the intoxicating swell that Christmas brings.

Even Doodle the usually over excited and ever-awake poodle heaved a heavy sigh of disdain as I crept from the musty sleep smelling room where both my son and the Irish one slept, the room I had lain awake in for most of the night before finally giving in, desperate to get words on paper, grabbing only my laptop and a pack of cigarettes to assist me in the journey.

Now I wish, of course, as I reach for my tea, my feet angrily tingling and overcome by numbness, that I had also grabbed my socks. Thinking ahead has never been my strong point. I wanted this to be romantic, soldier like, brave. I realise now, I could have been just as brave, soldier like and romantic, with warm feet.

As I sip my tea I witness in horror Jeff lose his footing on the narrow balcony handrail and watch transfixed as he dangles precariously from a lonely thread of web suspended above a 2 story drop that would surely, if he should fall, ensure his untimely death.

I know cats have 9 lives, but I am pretty sure spiders don’t. I can safely assume this because Doodle has a penchant for eating them, and unless our house is ‘the place spiders go when all their other lives have been exhausted’ or the ‘place spiders go to prove the 9 lives thing wrong’ I just cant see it being the case. If Jeff were to fall now, he would die. End of. Remember, Jeff is no longer a magpie, he has been re-incarnated as a spider. A spider without wings, thank god! *Ergh Shudder* Imagine if spiders could fly! *Shudder* shudder*

Panic stricken on his behalf I watch as he wraps all 8 of his hairy legs (we have a fair amount in common this new Jeff and I) around his silvery translucent self made strong hold, as it blows and bobs about in the morning breeze, clinging on to it for dear life.

Blowing the (artistic, seriously if this was a music video I would totally be the star… which is why socks wouldn’t have been appropriate, socks just aren’t sexy, and I wanted to feel sexy and depressed) smoke from my mouth from the rolly (I am so rock and roll) I made earlier, I contemplate helping him.

Jamie’s words ring in my ears.

‘No one else can help you, support yes, but you are the only one who is able to help you, you learnt how to do this in hospital. You were not in hospital to be cured, only to build an armory of tools to assist you in the journey towards that ever-illusive light at the end of the tunnel. A light which incidentally, can fade, only for you to switch it back on again.’

I should help him. I am clearly unable to help myself so I may as well help him.

If I picked the web up I could save his life, lift him on to the table beside my tea, where he would be safe for a while, until Doodle wakes up that is anyway, but what if, during this high voltage moment of spider terror, I dropped the web with my stubby eczema ravaged fingers and because of my actions he plummeted to his death anyway?

I wouldn’t be able to handle the guilt. I stood on a slug yesterday and cried for a full three minutes. It was truly traumatic. Sluggy entrails – everywhere. I even considered, as I am in Ireland and all, reciting a few Hail Mary’s. As it was my glands were killing and Addison was about to run in to oncoming traffic so there was no time. I did however, pray for the slug a little last night.

As I watch him clinging on, bobbing about in the wind, (back to Jeff the spider, seriously I am like the insect version of David Attenborough at the moment) no doubt frantically wishing for a break in the weather pattern so he can shoot out another web from his bum (they do make the webs in their bums don’t they?) and climb to safety, my mind wanders. (Seriously, I am useless in an emergency.)

I am sure when he first carefully planned and imagined his future, created his home, his life, met his wife, started college, got his degree in web construction, got his wife pregnant accidentally, became a father to six million spider bairns who all seemingly moved in to my flat, only to be eaten by a black fluffy four legged cloud, and got knighted as Sir Spider the first for his services to the Eccles spider population, he truly believed everything he had built, everything his eight legged life was built on, was stable secure and steadfast.

But now look at him.

Dangling from a disappearing thread of nothing, in a country he feels a little bit lost in, wishing he had maybe taken more time to enjoy the moments leading up to this one.

And this is where it becomes evident I have more in common with Jeff than just a slightly chubby set of hairy legs and badly misjudged footing.

I too have been clinging to an ever changing, translucent piece of thread tied to the end of my sanity, (not my bum) dangling over what felt like a 2 story drop, for a while too.

I haven’t written because I wanted to write happy, I wanted to prove I was mended, fixed, better. I wanted to wipe the slate clean, to expunge the ever growing record of depression and miserability from existence. As if I could tell myself that if I could only will these thoughts to be true, I am happy, I am better, I am cured, I would begin to feel them. That the time I spent in hospital away from my son would have been worth it. That I would have succeeded.

And the real thoughts, the thoughts that ensure I feel like a failure, a waste of time, have let everybody down, am not only a bad excuse for a mother, but a terrible friend, a liar, worthless, if only people knew the real me they would see that I am disgusting, despicable, mean and ugly inside, would slowly melt away in to obscurity.

With each passing day I have gripped harder, tightened my hold, ignored the inner turmoil and acted, pretended, fabricated and invented, to others as well as to myself, that life has suddenly manifested from murky grey in to bright yellow. I am hopeful, I am happy, I am content, I am Zen. I have Chi. (Or whatever.)

And all the while, as I have been dancing around acting like Rosie (everything’s Rosie… damn that bloody cartoon and its catchy song, I want her hair) while secretly clinging on to a mere fiber in time, to stop me from breaking, some fucker has been standing there pointing a hairdryer’s worth of wind in my direction, watching me bob about like a poo making its way down a river.

I haven’t been happy, or funny, or joyful, or (spit this next word out) ‘better.’

December dawned with swollen eyes, an allergic reaction to new medication and with it a sinking feeling that hiding behind every corner of my smile, the depression was ready to creep back in.

Mickeys twice upon Christmas constantly on repeat in the living room was the sound track to my disappointment in myself for not having tried harder, for not having been a better more lovable mummy and for having let everybody down and for feeling lost once more, as I took to my arm with my hair straighteners and caused such a severe burn I very nearly required a skin graft.

The month continued, suffocated with avoidance and denial and therefore being unable to write the truth, and having no escape hatch, as my mental health took a nosedive hand in hand with my relationship with the Irish one.

I hate you! (I mean myself) I love you! (I mean you.) I hate you! (I mean myself) Leave me alone, I am lonely, get away from me but please hug me. You are horrible! (because I have let you down) I despise you! (I mean me.) You do nothing for me! (Because you can’t read my mind.) I want it to be over! (Because I am not good enough, or of any use to anybody.) I want to die. (Because even if you did love me, I could never love myself.)

After an accidental codeine overdose last night in a bid to ward of the swollen glands I can no longer help but think of as Russian, bleary eyed and off my face as enough of the Irish one’s relatives to fill not only Christmas present, but also Christmas past and Christmas future came bundling through the door, faces beaming and excited, I finally realised it was time to tell the truth. (Not to his whole family. I’m depressed not insane. Hi! Welcome home for Christmas! I think I want to die again! Here, there is your present! No. I didn’t do that.)

I brought the Irish one out on to the very same balcony I am sat on now (after first admitting my dark thoughts on Twitter, for courage) and through floods of tears, garbled out the truth.

‘I am having a relapse. I am a failure. I am sorry I have let you down.’

‘I know,’ he replied softly, kneeling at my feet, holding on to my knees for support ‘I have known for weeks. And you haven’t let me down. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I just wish you had been honest sooner, you know there has always been support here.’

Tears of disappointment, shame, relief and love fled from the inner shadows of my soul and slowly I began to allow myself to be supported once again.

Something that isn’t always easy but if I had remembered, had always been there, either from those around me, or from the many stranger friends I have met online.

And this is where I find December dawdling to an end.

Sat in Ireland, at 6am on the eve of Christmas Eve, an empty cup of tea by my side, the dog scratching at the door to be let out and the Christmas tree lights glistening in the corner, from the warmth of the family room inside.

I glance up at Jeff quickly, heart hammering, only now that I am coming to the end of this emotional rollercoaster, remembering his plight and hopeful that by himself, he has made progress.

It is with a mixture of relief and awe I see that he has climbed back up and is now sat back on the balcony edge, a slight smile on his face, about to shave his legs. (I may have made that last bit up.)

Fair play to him.

If he can do it, maybe so can I.

‘I know how you feel mate. Thank you.’ And with that, I get up out of the chair, forgetting that my legs have completely fallen asleep underneath me and collapse in to a heap on the wet floor.

After I have cursed the pins and needles, and Jeff has finally stopped laughing at me and I have realised I definitely need to absolve the language that spilled out of my mouth with more than a few hail Mary’s, I finally creep back inside and slide back in to bed next to the Irish one and fall asleep listening to the sound of my sons snoring gag reflexes. (Boys!)

The journey is long.

I haven’t let anybody down, because I am still fighting it.

I didn’t jump off the boat and in to the icy water, on the way over here. I wanted to. But I didn’t.

Thank you for all your support.

Merry Christmas.

Homework. (Cos Apparently We Matter!)

I re-visited the mental facility today, as I do every Wednesday at the moment.

I miss Jeff. (Which isn’t why I go, but bear with me.)

Each time I approach the sign, welcoming me back with its green and white calming lettering, I automatically move down a gear. Almost as if by just turning a corner off the busy main road I am instantly shrouded in a cloak of peace and tranquility that the sanctuary provides, and my heartbeat automatically slows in adjustment to the surroundings.

I am astounded and overcome by the memories that this place holds for me now.

It seems a million years ago that I lived here, cried here and wanted to die here, and yet here it is, welcoming me in to it’s open arms, providing me with unconditional protection from the outside world, but more crucially from myself and the guilt, self loathing and anxiety, I am tortured by. Less now that I was, but tortured all the same.

Each time I step out of the car and glance towards the grey and clinical hospital building overlooking the car park, peeping out from between two deep-rooted majestic oak trees, I am proud of what I have achieved.

Albeit for for a very short time.

I am alive, I am well and my son is alive, well and thriving.

I should be proud of myself.

Or so I am told.

But although, I know all of this, I do not really believe it.

(I am an evil horrible person with post natal depression remember? I don’t deserve to be proud of myself!)

I kept my eyes peeled for my favourite magpie today as I was walking towards my dreaded one on one session with James but unfortunately I did not spot him hiding around the dotted nutters and crispy autumnal foliage.

(Dotted nutters would be a great name for a breakfast cereal, don’t you think? I would TOTALLY buy them. I imagine them to be a little like lucky charm’s but less Irish and more marshmallows. They could make them in to tiny nutter shapes! Me, Ozzy Osborne, Kerry Katona… the list is endless.)

So although I searched for him and did spot couple of imposters, and of course performed the obligatory salute to both, (does anyone else do like, an actual army salute, or is that just me? Recently I found out it is only supposed to be a good morning or whatever, as in that kind of salute? News to me. Superstitions are hard work yo!!  I will be doing both from now on anyway as I ain’t taking no chances!) but no Jeff.

Jeff and I spent some wonderful times together while I was an inpatient.

He would sit on my window ledge peering in at me from the outside and peck peck peck each and every time I needed him. Letting me know that although he understood I was on my own, incredibly depressed and hugely confused at how I had arrived here, when my pregnancy and subsequent birth was meant to be perfect, that he was there, listening and watching me, supporting me from afar while I sobbed and snotted my way through many a six pack. (Of square crisps.)

Today however, there was no Jeff and that made me gloomy.

He had clearly moved on, found himself a nice bird with long legs and the perfect figure (probably a tit) and was busy getting on with his life.

Where as I, if I am honest, seem to take 2 steps forward and 12 gallops back.

How is your Self Esteem? (I am asking you. So answer me.)

How is your self Esteem?

Because I thought mine was all right thanks, Jack. (I don’t know who Jack is, but I hear people say this a lot and I like the way it sounds.)

I had a great night out on Friday and am honestly still in awe that I came away with an award, especially seen as you know, I am an idiot, and I haven’t stopped grinning since. Not even in my sleep.

So when I was asked the question today,

‘Lexy, how do you think your self esteem is?’ By James the man with the Xray vision.

(As in, he can see in to my soul, not beneath my bra, thank god…as I am sure he would be most disappointed. Although I am pretty sure he is gay, so I am not sure why he would be looking in the first place.)

I told James, while crossing my arms across my boobs, that yes, my self-esteem was ‘grand.’

But at the end of the session, after he had ignored me of course and continued to pester me like he usually does, clearly sensing something I wasn’t, with those eyes that could skin a chicken in seconds, I was seriously starting to question whether this was the case, or like with everything else leading up to the grand event of being admitted in to that place, I was just kidding myself.

Was my self esteem ‘grand?’

‘How is your self esteem Lexy?’ He asked peering so far through my windows to the soul I was pretty sure he could see what I had eaten for lunch.

‘Aright, yeah, all right yeah thanks James, you know. Alright.’  I stuttered trying to break eye contact and failing miserably.

‘Shall we test that theory?’ he asked smiling kindly.

‘Why not?’ I responded shifting in my seat, feeling the discomfort starting in my chest.

Usually when James tests a theory, he is right and I am proved wrong. So you can understand my awkwardness at that point.

I hate being wrong, and being wrong to a man is just damn insulting, no matter how insightful that man actually is.  (You get that right?)

I mean yeah, when I get dressed I tend to focus on the things about myself that I dislike, like my arm fat, or my hairy thighs, my huge nose, my flabby drooping arse, my kangaroo pouch, my stretch marks, my sagging boobs and my yellow teeth, but who doesn’t?

And sure, occasionally I will bring myself down a peg or two if I have done something to be proud of, and yeah intermittently I will forget to do something for Addison, for someone special or for an organization (like paying a bill, interestingly this one is the most common) and give myself the living amount of grief over it, but that is normal isn’t it? We all bloody do it. (Don’t we?)

So other than hating myself, forgetting to buy myself dinner sometimes as I am so busy looking after others and never really accepting compliments without explaining my opinion;

(‘Oh Lexy I love your bag.’

‘What this old thing? I have had it ages, it is actually really dirty and I don’t look after stuff.’

Or

‘Oh Lexy you should write a book, your blog is great.’

‘Nah honest, it is just fluke that I won.’)

My self-esteem is pretty good.

I don’t hate myself all the time.

‘Ok Lexy so let us start.’

‘Actually James I am not sure you need to.’

I had already come to the conclusion that my self esteem was pretty shit actually.

He looked at me and nodded.

‘Thought as much’ the slight nod of his head as the understanding passed across his features, told me.

Damn it I hate it when men are right.

‘So ok,’ I began to ask ‘my self esteem since giving birth has been rock bottom, what can I do about it?’

‘Do you treat yourself?’ he asked.

‘Yes’ I replied instantly, safe in the knowledge that treating myself was something I was great at.

‘How?’ he fired back unconvinced.

‘I buy stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘Shoes, clothes, nice food’

I paused and he urged me to go on, the way he always does, with a slight flip of the hand lying in his lap.

‘But I probably shouldn’t as we don’t really have the money.’ I finished as he sat up, barely able to contain his glee.

‘Ah’ he exclaimed, holding a finger in the air before continuing  ‘so you treat yourself, but then beat yourself up about it?’

I didn’t respond but looked down at the scarf lying in my lap, smoothing it over my leg again and again, as if to methodically push away the pain slowly beginning to rise to the surface from years of self-abuse.

‘So ok,’ he continued sensing my unease ‘do you relax?’

‘Yes.’ I replied, once again feeling in control of the situation.

‘How?’ He asked.

‘I write, or read a book, or watch television or have a bath.’

‘You watch television?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you actually watch though, or do you think about other things, while you just aimlessly stare at the screen?’

I shifted in my seat at this point.

It was all getting a bit too much like that film SCREAM for my liking.

How does he know these things?

Will he ring me tonight when I am in my pajamas staring at something the Irish one is forcing me to watch on discovery channel and say ‘I can see you Leeexxxxxyyyy, what are you thiiinnkkkiinggg abouuut?’

I shuddered and taking this as an affirmative, and not noticing I was now glancing about looking for a stashed freaky scream mask, he continued.

‘Ok, and when you are in the bath what do you think about?’

I will be honest.

I burst out laughing.

‘That is a bit personal James.’ Fnar fnar, smack of the leg.

‘Is it?’ he replied without flinching, ‘because I think that probably the only thing you think about when you are relaxing is what you have to do in the morning, or what Addison needs for dinner, or how much washing up is left in the sink, or oooo I don’t know’ he pauses reaching in to an imaginary suitcase in his mind about to pull out the piece de resistance ‘how many people dislike you, or how fat you think you are, or perhaps, just perhaps, you talk yourself out of every success you have achieved over the day, by telling yourself you could have done better and will do better tomorrow.’

He looked at me looking for signs of recognition, his eyes brimming over with kindness, but saw nothing, as by that point I had put my lovely new scarf over my head and face, and was doing a very bad impression of Darth Vader, against my will.

‘Lexy?’ he asked tentatively ‘what are you doing?’

‘I am hiding’ my muffled voice came from beneath the scarf ‘you know too much and it is pissing me off.’

‘Ok’ he laughed ‘good to know where we stand. I will still be here when you feel you can look me in the eye again and if you can’t I will leave, it is almost time anyway but I am giving you some homework ok?’

‘This week’ he announced ‘I want you to do something nice for you, without beating yourself up and without feeling guilty about all the other things you SHOULD or COULD or NEED to be doing at that time.’

He continued ‘Go to the cinema, watch a film, do some writing for you, not for anyone else, buy yourself something and ENJOY the pleasure of treating yourself without the guilt, the constant need to put yourself down or tell yourself you SHOULDN’T have spent the money on that.

Be kind to yourself, and try to enjoy the moment, guilt free.’

‘What would be the point?’ I had asked a little nonplussed and now sweating from beneath the thick wool scarf.

‘You may start to believe you deserve it and that you are worth it.’ He had replied as I pulled the scarf off my face and decided to rise to the challenge. ‘You may just gain a little bit of pleasure and either way, what harm can it do?’

None.

So this week, I am taking a small step to help my self-esteem.

I am going to find the time to treat myself. Guilt free.

Will you join me?

I think I may give myself a facial.

What about you?

I may also say a little prayer for Jeff’s happiness; he was a great bird.

It is a small step for mammy kind, right?

But an important one.

Go on, treat yourself.

Eh?

Listen now, this is important.

If you cannot picture me dressed up as a giant root vegetable running around Manchester city centre, then I suggest you close this post down and come back another day.

I wouldn’t mind either because some things just aren’t meant to be.

Like, World Peace for instance.

Or even, my last set of false nails.

You think that’s a bit far fetched? That my extremely glittery, bombastically special talons couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the state of the new union, Rupert Murdoch and some bearded dude in Iran?

Well you would be wrong.

What? Where the hell am I going with this one?

I honestly do not know but seriously stick with me; it’ll be worth it in the end. I just know it.

(Obviously I can’t promise this and don’t sue me if you get to the end of this post and feel like a) wringing my neck or b) demanding your internet provider refund you the 7 minutes air time it will undoubtedly take you to decipher the insanity of this post or even c) digging up the back garden and planting a marrow. I take no responsibility for what is about to happen.)

This week the obligatory therapy sessions have left me feeling a little like I have been jumping on an emotional trampoline.

Wahhheyyyyy look at meeeeee I’m sooo hiiighhh I feel like a teenager againnn!!

Ooooooooooo fucking hell coming downs a bit hard on the old back oof!

Waheeeeeyyyy look at meeeeee I can do a star jump it feels so goooood!!

Waoooof was that my ankle that made that breaking noise? Campumf eck, my necks gone all tingly.

Wahhheyyyyy I’m going to try a sitting jump! I can do anything I’m amazinggg!

Awhaccckkk good god somebody help me up, my back is actually broken and im pretty sure I just bit my tongue in two!

Oh what the hell Waheeeeeyyyy one last go can’t hurt, I’m higherrr than everrrrr!!!! I am the QUEEEN OFFF THEEE WORRRLLLDDDDD.

Er, yes. That is wee running down my legs. Do you have a spare Tena? Anyone?

Seriously, it is such a shame there isn’t an Olympic sport for being a tit, because I seriously deserve an award. I would win it too.

‘And the gold/diamond Nork trophy, sponsored by tommee tippee and Lanosil angry nipple cream for how many emotions can you tear through in a ten minute period, goes to Lexy Ellis for being a prize floppy and floundering, utter mammary gland!!!

Congratulations all around.  You are officially a pimpled teat.’

Seriously. (In case you felt I hadn’t already used the word seriously enough. I am totally serious. Seriously.)

Either that or someone should seriously consider casting me in an emotional version of Challenge Anneka. They could call it Challenge Knobby, and instead of dressing me up in a jumpsuit (because lets face it, this is tea time telly and no one needs to see that while they are tucking in to their reduced fat Bangers and Smash) they could dress me up as a giant cucumber and have me half run half waddle around shopping centers world wide trying to find hidden objects stashed under 3 wheeler prams without anyone noticing. I can see it now.

‘Mary, was that a giant cucumber that just walked past or are these sleepless nights getting too much for me?’

‘No Laura, I think I saw it too. Actually, I am sure it stole a bottle out of my changing bag. But then again, it may have been a gherkin.’

And I would be filmed scuttling off dressed as a huge vegetable (that Addison clearly wouldn’t eat) riddled with guilt about my thievery before doing an emotional 360 and coming back, bending over and battering them both with my elongated forehead because my mother never showed me enough affection.

Can you imagine?

I can see the headlines now.

Killer cucumber strikes again.  Mr. Bloom involved in compostarium nightmare!!

First and only interview here!!

‘It wasn’t my allotment, there was fuck all to see!’ He sang with his northern twang ‘She was just a mentalist from up somewhere near me….’

BBC show gets out of hand!! Overtired mother finally loses the will to…

Anyway.

Moving on swiftly.

Dear diary,
Today I bought Addison some foamy letters for the bath. Ever since I first saw those two pink lines sat on the bathroom side (pink lines not white lines, those days are long gone!) I have imagined walking in to the bathroom post bath time and seeing my daughter’s (oops I mean son’s) name emblazoned on the wall in foamy letters. It would be so romantic. This would mean we had made it as a proper family. I would be a proper mummy. Limping around Mothercare today (two toes, one sofa, a great divide) I spotted a bag of alphabet letters and bought them! I cannot wait to give Addison a bath and make this simple dream come true! As soon as he gets up it is bath time! Can’t wait to see what they look like! Will have to take photos! I will officially be mum to a toddler!

Dear diary,
There are no fecking eses’s in the bag. (Like the letter s. Not Esse like some Spanish mafia type. I’m bloody glad there are no Spanish mafia types in the bag! The last thing I need at bath time what with all the wailing and splashing already going on, is a little Spanish man in a straw hat holding a machine gun to my head. What the hell kind of pressure would that put on me? Why the hell would Mothercare do that to me? A B C D E F YO SOY JOSE!! And what if the mafia type got hungry? What would I feed him? Do mafia types eat paella?) What the bloody hell kind of alphabet doesn’t have an S in it???? MY son’s name has two BLOODY ese’s in it. (Again the letter S. My sons name does not have two Spanish men holding machine guns and plates of badly made paella behind their backs in it.) So there goes that daydream. I couldn’t even swear. All the swear words I can think of have an S in them! (Except the c word and although I was tempted, I was that angry! There is always a chance that grandma could call round and I’m not sure even I could make excuses and get away with having the word c*nt written in bouncy letters on the bathroom wall with a one year old in the house.) How does one make paella?

Dear diary.
So pleased with my sparkly new nails! They look wonderful. Feel a little more human again after the nightmares of weeks gone by. Sarah did such a good job on them and I feel proper glam.

Dear diary.
Within 2 days of having my nails done, the plague hit.  I broke 4 in a terrible car door accident following on from shit up back –gate, and then managed to not only get my puke under the remaining 6, but also had a feeling there may have been some of Addison’s and Doodle the Poodle’s puke lodged under them too. It was a chance I couldn’t take. I ripped the remaining 6 off in a fit of fury and disgust. My hands are in tatters. (And so is my arse but that is another story all together.) I officially resemble Fagan from Oliver but with less britches and more swearing. Damn stomach bug spreading like wildfire.  Bloody motherhood!

Dear diary, I met Jo Frost. She was amazing. She gave me some great advice.

Dear Diary, I got too excited and screamed in Jo frosts face.  She was covered in spit.

Dear Diary, I am writing this from the naughty corner.

Dear Diary, I have met some truly lovely and amazing people this week.

Dear Diary, I dropped a red-hot fishcake on my foot. It hurt.

Dear Diary, The Irish one and I are going to spend some quality time together tonight.

Dear Diary, Was forced to watch Planet of the Apes. What a load of guff! How can you be romantic after watching that? For the love of god.

Dear Diary, Had a dream I was being attacked by a monkey in a smoking jacket. Woke up sweaty.

Dear Diary, Blame Tim Burton for full night of unrest.

Dear Diary, Took Addison to see the planes at the airfield. We had a great time.

Dear Diary, Until he shit up his back while I was talking to a pilot. It smelt like somebody died. The guy clearly thought it was me. Addison found this hilarious. I did not.

Dear Diary, The council say I can’t build a compostarium. I only want to grow shoes.

Dear Diary, Must find other ways of enticing Mr. bloom. I think I fancy him. What is wrong with me?

Dear Diary, Therapy is supposed to regulate my moods.

Dear Diary, Just laughed, cried, sneezed and weed in the space of twenty minutes.

Dear Diary, Have put on 5 pounds.

Dear Diary, The Irish One said that ‘compared to the empty water balloon’ my stomach resembled after giving birth I have done really well. He said he was a ‘bit worried’ it would never go and said he thought ‘what the hell is that?’ when he saw me straight afterwards ‘sitting with it plonked in front of me.’

Dear Diary, Have dug a man shaped hole in the back garden.

Dear Diary, Will this week ever end?

Dear Diary, Will I ever be an organized mother?

Dear Diary, Some things just aren’t meant to be.

Like Monkey’s ruling the world.

Or Being the perfect mother.

I think you must just have to let go and enjoy the moment.

But I see these other mothers and they look so restrained and in control! Surely they aren’t having secret rumblings for a northern man in wellies who own’s a talking cabbage? Surely they don’t forget to clean dishes and end up eating soup out of the pan? Surely they aren’t scared of turning in to Nanny from count Duckula?

Oh well.

Think I will retire my plans and settle down for a while, in the here and now. I am what I am, que sera sera and whatever will be will be. Once a brick always a brick.

(I may have made that last one up.)

But seriously, if you happen to see a giant cucumber toddling down the road looking a bit confused and carrying and Aldi bag, keep an eye on your belongings sure, but don’t write it off, maybe give it a wave. Or maybe a hug.

But be warned, it may swear at you. Or cry. Or gush, or laugh, or dance, or potentially bend over and get in to fight mode…. you just never know with those root veg.

They can be a bit unpredictable.

Just like new mothers.

I’m in the closet.

Tomorrow night I am going out and I am dreading it.

Except I am not really dreading it, if you know what I mean. (Do you? Do you know what I mean? Because I’m not sure I do, so if you do, will you tell me? My brain has died!)

I am looking forward to it. I think. Underneath all the stress and anxiety of what going out actually means these days, that is.  

Do you know what I mean? (I have now cottoned on to what I am getting at.)

Since becoming a mammy, I don’t know how to go out. Does that make sense?

I used to go out in short skirts and figure hugging tops. I used to go out and get absolutely steaming with my friends and laugh until my sides hurt. I used to go out in fancy dress and dance the night away. I used to go out and not give a flying hoot about what my arse looked like (I had the confidence you see, those were, what I now refer to as the confident days) and I used to go out with butterflies of excitement in my belly.

I used to go out with no plan, and see where the night took me. I used to go out and enjoy the getting ready and the coming home and chatting until the early hours. I used to love going out.

(Fancy dress…………..Honest!)

Tonight, however, on the eve of my third night out since giving birth ( a year and a month ago. Did you hear me? A year and a month ago!) I have butterflies which are a little more annoying and a little more sinister. (Bats then, rather than Butterflies. I have bats in my belly.)

I am absolutely certain I won’t be pulling on the first thing that jumps out at me as I open the wardrobe (because I already tried 7 things on), but am more likely to huff and puff and strop my way through my entire wardrobe and still cry and scream and stamp my foot while hissing at the Irish One  ‘no i don’t look beautiful in this, You haven’t even looked!!!  I look like a hippo under a duvet. Look Irish one, Look! Look at my back fat!!! This is your fault, yours! You and your bloody sperm!’ (He is so sick of me. I don’t care. If it wasn’t for him I would still be thinner than my wildest dreams. I also wouldn’t have Addy, but that is beside the point. )

What will I talk about when I eventually get out? (Feeling like an elephant wrapped in cling film, no doubt.) I am no longer the confident woman I once was. Post Natal depression has whipped that woman from out of me and left me with a skin full of nerves and shadows. (Imagine a water balloon, but full of nothing, but still bloated somehow. Yup, that’s me.) 

I am a woman who has lost all her sparkle.

At least, I think I have, maybe I could find it, if I could concentrate for long enough to remember what I am looking for in the first place. The problem also is, I cannot remember what my sparkle looked like. It has been that long since I have seen it.

But on to more pressing matters, what handbag will I take? I don’t know how to leave the house without nappies and wipes anymore. Maybe I should take them anyway? You never know what you will run in to, and then I could just take the changing bag? I don’t remember what carrying a bag weighing less than a bowling ball feels like, and surely, If I am just taking my wallet, my phone and my house keys, I wouldn’t even need a bag? Oh god. I am not sure I can leave the house without a bag! What will I do with my hands? Where will I put them? What will they search for?

And while we are on that subject, what can I drink? I am no longer a woman who can mix beverages and order anything she fancies without worrying about the consequences. I will be up at Dawn’s crack the following morning, but nowadays, not because my head will be down the loo, but because there will be a clampit sticking his finger up my nose in an attempt to wake me up. Do I still drink willynilly and just live in the moment (and regret it in the morrow) or do I put my boring sensible foreboding head on and drink water between every drink and only half let my hair down in case i feel too rough the next day? In which case, shouldn’t I just drink soft drinks? But I want to feel a little drunk, I want to and need to throw caution to the wind! But what if, in doing so, I break wind? (No control over that yet either.)

I don’t know how to go out anymore!!!  I don’t know what to talk about!!! I don’t know how to act!!! I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore.

I know I’m not just a mother, but usually I am just a mother.

So for the six or so hours, tomorrow night when I am not just a mother, but a young (ahem) woman on the town, I don’t know who I will be.

I’m not the woman I was. I don’t know if I am the woman I should be, and I’m not sure I have the energy to be the woman I could be.

I suppose only time (and wine) will tell.

I’m going back to the wardrobe. (If I’m not back in four hours, call Gok Wan.)

See you on the other side

Who am I now? I just dont know!

(And yes I am grabbing my boob, but let’s just ignore that. This photo is a symbol of me not knowing who I am. Not what I am grabbing… Ahem.)

Can I still be me? That is the six million dollar question.

I will try to be me, I suppose. When I have worked out who me, now is.